I was recently asked for grace. The person who asked me had used several words that are offensive to a minority community of which I am a part. After explaining at length why it was offensive I told them that we all sometimes inadvertently say things that are offensive simply because we don’t know better, myself included. What matters is how we respond when called out on it. We can ignore it or defend what we said, or we can listen, learn, and try to do better. They responded by insisting their word choice was not offensive, and then telling me I needed to offer grace in these kinds of situations.​I have to admit, their request confused me. Had I not already offered grace by privately explaining the offense and suggesting it was an accident that even I have been guilty of? How much more grace can I offer? And then it occurred to me what they really meant by grace: I shouldn’t have said anything. They were trying to tell me that to really offer grace as a Christian should, I should ignore offensive language and other micro-aggressions. I should offer the offender “grace” by keeping quiet and not forcing them to recognize that what they have done is offensive or harmful. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how often marginalized communities are told this. People of color are told to give grace to racists. LGBTQ people are told to give grace to those who believe they are going to hell. Trans people are told to give grace to those who misgender them or chase them out of bathrooms. Women are told to give grace to misogynists. Oppressed people are told to give grace to their oppressors when they are discriminated against or insulted.

And I rarely hear of grace going the opposite way. If a person of color, after hearing 19 people den that racism exists, snaps at the 20th person who says the same, do they receive grace? If a trans person has been misgendered by 19 people that day, and finally snaps at the 20th person, do they receive grace? If a woman has been catcalled and talked down to and mansplained 19 times in a day, and finally snaps at the 20th person, does she receive grace? Do marginalized people, tired of constantly dealing with slurs, micro-aggressions and more receive grace when they can’t take one more person degrading and devaluing their existence? If it does happen, it’s rare. Minorities are expected to keep calm and explain the twentieth, or one hundredth, or one thousandth offense with as much “grace” as the first time. And even when they do they are often dismissed, told they shouldn’t be offended, and reprimanded for saying anything. They are told to give “grace.”

Except that’s not grace.

Grace is not a weapon. It’s not a silencer. You might say, but aren’t Christians supposed to give grace? But there’s a big difference between claiming “I don’t see anything wrong with what I’ve done, I don’t need to apologize, give me grace so I can keep hurting you,” and “I realize I’ve done wrong, and I’ll try to do better, but I’m human, so if I mess up again, I ask for grace.” Which of these statements would you pray to God? If you wouldn’t say the first statement to God, why would it be ok to say it to another person?

One of my professors says that only God can offer grace; humans can only reflect the grace that we receive from God. But grace is not something we deserve or demand, from God or others. It can only be offered, freely and undeserved. Jesus taught us that when someone in the community sins, we must first go to them privately and offer them a chance to repent. If they refuse we go in a small group. If they still refuse, we address the sin publicly. If they still refuse, only then do we cast them out from the community. And that is a way we can reflect grace. Just as God offers the chance to repent, even though we have done nothing to deserve that chance, we confront others in their sins and offer them the chance to repent. Grace does not mean allowing people to continue as they are, but to show them how they have sinned, and accept their repentance if and when it comes, as God does for each of us.

Grace is not a weapon. It is not something we use to guilt people, saying “You’re not a real Christian if you don’t give me grace.” Grace is not something we demand from those we have wronged. Grace is a gift, undeserved, freely given by God and God alone. It is time we stopped demanding grace from marginalized people so that we can keep treating them the same without it weighing on our consciences. It is time we start repenting and humbling begging God, and the oppressed, for grace and forgiveness for the way we have oppressed them.

​Note: This is the third of a series of blogs for the Advent season. Each week focuses on a song related to the advent candle for that Sunday. On the third Sunday of Advent we light the joy candle.

In the new Glory to God hymnal there’s a hymn that’s quickly becoming a favorite of many Presbyterians. Based on Mary’s song (or the Magnificat) from Luke 1:46-56, Canticle of the Turning joyously celebrates the coming of God’s justice to the world. The chorus reads:

My heart shall sing of the day you bring
Let the fires of your justice burn
Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near,
And the world is about to turn

Although we often associate Mary with meekness, Mary’s song shows her in a different role. She speaks in Luke 1 as a prophetess, declaring “He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty” (v. 52-3). Mary understood what the coming of the Messiah meant for the world: God’s justice poured out on the world, corruption brought down, and the weak and humble raised up. Jesus’ coming meant everything was about to change, or in the words of Canticle of the Turning, “the world is about to turn.”

As we wait for the arrival of Christmas, let us celebrate the one who raised up women, who treated the outcasts as equals, who chased the moneylenders from the temple, and condemned the powerful who enforced systems of injustice. Let us remember our call to continue the work that Christ began, to fight injustice, so that God’s mercy and justice may be poured out upon the earth. Be joyful, for our God is turning the world around.

For your viewing pleasure, the translation of Canticle of the Turning written by my friend Cristhian and I last year, with a special appearance by Jair.

Note: This is the second of a series of blogs for the Advent season. Each week focuses on a song related to the advent candle for that Sunday. On the second Sunday of Advent we light the peace candle.

Last January a group from the seminary traveled to Israel-Palestine, where they visited holy sites and spoke with people on both sides of the conflict. Recently a friend shared with me a song they sang while in the Christmas Church of Bethlehem. It was an alternative version of O Little Town of Bethlehem (lyrics below). The lyrics speak of the need to restore peace in the town which represents peace for many Christians at Christmas time. The original lyrics of the song depict Bethlehem as a peaceful place, a place where hope originates, yet that is far from the reality today.

As the Israeli occupation of the West Bank continues to restrict the rights and threaten the lives of the 2.7 million Palestinians who live there peace may seem impossible. The people of Bethlehem, along with the rest of the West Bank and Gaza, have their movement restricted by walls and check points and Israeli only zones and roads, cutting of their access to their farms and livelihoods and preventing them from traveling within their own country (I invite you to learn more about the occupation here). After Trump announced this week that he intends to move the US embassy to Jerusalem and recognize the city as the capital of Israel, it seems that the chance of peace is slipping farther and farther away. Yet Palestinians continue to hold out hope for a just peace, that is, a peace where all people, Palestinians and Israelis receive justice and live in peace with one another.

I invite you to listen to the instrumental version of O Little Town of Bethlehem, consider the words that Christians in Bethlehem sing today, and join me in praying for a just peace for Palestine.

O holy child of Bethlehem,Descend on us we prayYour love bring down on David’s town,Drive fear and hate awayAwake the ire of nations,Let justice be restoredRebuild the peace in silent streetsWhere once your love was born

​Note: This is the first of a series of blogs for the Advent season. Each week focuses on a song related to the candle for that Sunday. On the first Sunday of Advent we light the hope candle.

Recently I came across a song I haven’t heard in close to a year. It’s an Argentinian tango called “Tenemos Esperanza” (We have Hope). Written by Rev. Federico J. Pagura (Argentina) and Homero Perera (Uruguay) in response to the Dirty War of Argentina in the 1970s, the song is part of the “Porque” (Why) trilogy. The three songs, Tenemos Esperanza, Porque El Venció (Because He Overcame), and Porque Hay un Mundo (Because There is a World), attempt to help people answer the questions everyone was asking: why is this happening and has God abandoned us?

I first heard the song early on in my time in Colombia, but I couldn’t understand most of the words. Like most songs I heard in church at that time, I picked up only a few words of the chorus, in this case the title, “tenemos esperanza.” When I heard it again a few weeks ago I recognized the tune immediately, but this time I understood what it meant, and why this Argentinian song had made it all the way to Colombia.

In times of suffering, we find ourselves asking, where is God? Where is God in a country that has been at war with itself for half a century? Where is God when that country’s own government and citizens try to derail a chance for peace? Where is God when millions are displaced from their homes? Where is God when there is no justice?

Yet God reminds us, He is here. God is in the human rights defenders and faith leaders who risk their lives to work for peace. God is in the victories, small and large, that signal a new and better future. God is in the people who refuse to lose hope. And God is with every person in the midst of their suffering. In the words of Rev. Pagura:

​Because he came into the world and history,Because he broke the silence and the agony,Because he filled the earth with his gloryBecause he was light in our cold night.

Because he was born in a dark manger,Because he lived sowing love and life,Because he opened up the hard heartsAnd lifted up the downcast souls

(Chorus)That’s why we have hope todayThat’s why we fight tenaciously todayThat’s why today we look with confidenceTo the future of this land of mineThat’s why we have hope todayThat’s why we fight tenaciously todayThat’s why today we look with confidenceTo the future

Because he attacked the ambitious merchants,And denounced evil and hypocrisy,Because he exalted the children, the women,And rejected those who burn with pride

Because he carried the cross of our sufferingAnd tasted the bitterness of our illsBecause he accepted to suffer our condemnationAnd thus died for all mortals

(Chorus)

Because a dawn saw his great victoryOver death, the fear, the liesNow nothing can stop his story,Or the coming of his eternal Kingdom

August 2016 I left the US to serve as a YAV in Colombia. August 2017 I set foot on US soil for the first time in more than 11 months. Before I even exited the airport I could tell: this is not the country I left behind. Of course I knew things were going to be different. I had kept up with the news. I watched the election results with my host siblings. I followed the updates coming out of Standing Rock. I saw the photos of the Women’s March. But I wasn’t expecting everything to feel so different.

Two days after I returned home someone burned down the house of the director of the new Pride Center in my hometown. Two days after that torch-carrying Nazi’s marched through Charlottesville and murdered a counter protestor. Things were different. Yet something felt off about saying that the US had changed.

The day after Charlottesville I celebrated the ordination of one of my seminary classmates. One of our professors preached at the service and attempted to make sense of the tragedy of the day before. Afterwards we spoke for a few minutes, and she finally put into words what I had been feeling: everything is different, but nothing has changed.

After the 2016 election I heard a lot of people, in their distress and confusion over the results, saying this wasn’t the country they knew. And I heard a lot more people criticize those people for not recognizing that this is how our country has always been, it’s just that people with privilege were able to overlook it before. The racism, sexism, homophobia, and xenophobia that fueled Trump’s campaign were always there, it just finally came out into the open. Nothing has changed. People of color, women, LGBTQ people, immigrants, and religious minorities face the same bigotry and discrimination as before, but the majority can’t ignore it anymore. Even in my white, conservative, birthplace-of-the-Republican-party hometown, people are being forced to address these issues. Everything is different because the bigotry that our country is built on is out in the open now for all to see, but nothing has changed, because it’s always been there.

Since the elections three days ago I’ve heard many people say, “this is the country I knew.” But that statement is just as problematic as what they were saying a year ago. We never really truly had a country that chooses love and acceptance over bigotry. So in response to the election, in which people of color, women, and LGBTQ people won positions that have never been held by minorities before, I would like to say, this is the beginning of the country I would like to know.

Last winter my hometown passed a new non-discrimination ordinance which adds sexual orientation and gender identity to the list of protected minorities. This victory for the LGBTQ community came after more than twenty years of fighting for these protections. It was obviously a controversial decision for a town that proudly claims to be the birthplace of the Republican Party. Although I was not present at the city council meeting, my family and friends recounted for me the many people who showed up to speak both in support and in opposition of the NDO. Those who opposed it quoted scripture, calling same sex relationships abominations, and claiming that as faithful followers of Christ and American citizens with a right to freedom of religion they have the right to discriminate against the LGBTQ community. After the NDO passed, there was a petition to try to force the city to put it to a popular vote, a campaign spearheaded by a number of conservative churches and pastors.

The weekend before I returned to the US, Jackson, MI celebrated their first Pride. Despite a threat of protesters, none showed up. However, five days later someone burned down the house of the director of the Jackson Pride Center. Although he and his partner were not at home, they lost everything, including their five pets. Despite the Mayor insisting that this is not a hate crime, because, as he says, hate crimes do not happen in Jackson, the connection is clear.

Jackson County is overwhelmingly conservative. I’ve been hearing anti-LGBTQ rhetoric since before I understood what the word homosexual meant. And it has all come from people who call themselves Christians, who invoke the Word of God as justification for their bigotry.

And I have to say I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of people twisting the words of my Savior. I’m tired of people turning my faith into something bigoted and hypocritical. I’m tired of Christianity being synonymous with hate.​Some days I think there must be another version of the Bible out there, something completely different from what I read. I try to guess what this Bible must look like. Does it say things like “Do not judge, unless this person looks or loves or believes different than you. Then you should make sure to tell them they are going to hell every chance you get”? Does it say “Blessed are those who persecute people for their differences, for theirs is the kingdom of God”? Does this other Bible show Jesus eating with Pharisees and berating the tax collectors for their sins? Does he tell them to come back when their lives look more like the Pharisees’?

I don’t believe that it’s a sin to be gay, bi, transgender, or any of those other letters (but that’s a whole other post in itself). But even to those of you who sincerely believe that it is, ask yourself this: what part of the Bible lets you justify treating the LGBTQ community in the way that you do? Where do you get the idea that Jesus would want you to discriminate against people? Why do you believe you are called to deny people housing and jobs and services? Why do you believe that the man who was ostracized for going out of his way to minister to the outcasts of his society would advocate for the persecution of anyone?

Can you not see the hypocrisy? Do you not realize that your legalistic religion, that rejects not only LGBTQ people, but also single mothers, battered women, drug addicts, alcoholics, prisoners and ex-convicts, the homeless, the mentally ill, and anyone else you view as lesser, bears far closer resemblance to the Pharisees than to Jesus and his disciples? Do you honestly believe that if Jesus were physically present today he would be sitting in your churches and not out on the streets with the vulnerable people you reject so callously?

I am tired of hearing people say “As a Christian I have a right to discriminate, it’s freedom of religion.” Maybe your religion tells you that you have to, but stop applying the word Christian to it. What you are doing bears no resemblance to Christ or his ministry. Christ ministered to the most vulnerable of his society. He berated the religious leaders of his day for mistreating them. He broke religious laws to care for people. He loved unconditionally.

If you want to claim religious freedom to discriminate, don’t you dare do it in Jesus’ name

I’ve spent the last year of my life talking about peace. Everywhere I went in Colombia we talked about the conflict, the victims, and the peace process. We debated whether the peace accords are good for the country. We talked about who supported the accords and who didn’t. We talked about what the Bible says about peace and how we as Christians should respond. We talked about peace.

And then I returned to the US last week, and suddenly the people around me aren’t talking about peace anymore. Saturday I watched in horror the images and videos that filled my newsfeed of torch-carrying Nazis, peaceful counter protestors being beaten, a woman being killed, and police letting it happen. I felt sick hearing Trump blame both sides and learning from friends that the worst of the violence had been covered up.

But looking at the faces of the people who stood up to the hate and racism, I saw the same thing I saw every day in Colombia: peacemakers. In Colombia they like to say that the purpose of the peace accords is to create a just and lasting peace. The accords aren’t just about convincing the guerillas to lay down their weapons. The accords seek to address the issues of injustice and inequality that caused people to take up arms in the first place. They offer reparations to the victims of the conflict, including minority communities that have suffered disproportionately. They offer rural reform to fix the economic inequality between urban and rural communities. They offer more effective measures to combat drug production and use that take into consideration why people grow or use drugs. The goal is to create peace for all. There is no true peace until all can live in peace.

The counter protestors who stood up to white supremacy on Saturday want that same kind of peace for the US. And they understand something important about peace: peacemaking is different from peacekeeping. Peacekeeping means preventing conflict by upholding systems that cause inequality and injustice. Peacekeeping means blaming violence on the oppressed when they stand up against their oppressors. Peacekeeping means saying there are “many sides.” But peacemaking means stirring the pot. Peacemaking means breaking the status quo. Peacemaking means tearing down the system and rebuilding a new one so that there will be peace for all.

In Matthew 5:9 Jesus says “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” Two verses in 5:11 later he says “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.” Seeing the responses to peacemakers both in Colombia and the US, I believe these two verses are connected. Jesus calls us to be peacemakers, but the world will insult us, persecute us, and falsely say all kinds of evil against us because of it. Peacemakers are attacked, beaten, and killed for standing up for peace. But that is what Jesus calls us to do.

If we call ourselves Christian, it is clear which side we belong on. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” Be a peacemaker. Don’t let hate win.

The day has arrived, and faster than I thought it would. I’ve said my goodbyes, and tomorrow I am flying to Bogota, and then on to the Amazon for one last adventure before I go home next week. Once I get home I’ll have about three weeks in Michigan to get my life back in order, meet with the CPM, apply for spring CPE, prepare a presentation for my home church, and spend time with my friends and family before moving back to Louisville to finish my last year of seminary, (hopefully) complete the ordination process, and figure out what’s next. The idea seems daunting, and honestly I’m not sure I’m ready to go.

Almost one year ago I put my life on pause to come to Colombia. After going straight from college to seminary I decided I needed to step away from everything. I needed time to figure out who I was and what God was calling me to do. I came here with a million questions and, despite answering a few, I’m leaving with a million more. This past year was one of the most difficult experiences of my life, but I wouldn’t change any part of it. Although no part of it went how I imagined it (as much as I tried to avoid having expectations before I arrived), it was exactly what I needed. I’ve learned more about God, the church, Colombia, the US, and myself than I ever hoped to. Part of me feels guilty for thinking so much about what I’m taking away, because I know that I’ve gained far more than I was able to offer to the people I met. But it’s as they told us at orientation, all those months ago. No one here ever needed me, but they were happy to share with me their knowledge, wisdom, experiences, and more, and accept what little I had to offer in return.

As I think about going home in a week, I have to admit I’m a bit scared. I put my life on pause. Leaving the US in the summer, spending a year in a place where it never gets cold, and returning once again in the summer, it almost feels like time has stood still. I stepped out of my life, and found an entirely new one here. New friends, new job, new church, new home, new experiences, new adventures. But time didn’t stop. Life has continued both for my family in Michigan, and my friends in Kentucky. Home is not the same. The United States is not the same. Moreover I’m not the same. And somehow I have to figure out how I fit into that and move forward from here.

​"This is the word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord: 'Go down to the potter’s house, and there I will give you my message.' So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him." Jeremiah 18:1-4

This past week Sarah, Brittany and I traveled to Cartagena for our final retreat of the year. We spent the week exploring the old city, snorkeling in the Islas del Rosario, visiting the Presbyterian church of Cartagena, and reflecting on the past year and preparing for the transition home (you can see pictures from the week here). On our first night Sarah led us in our opening worship. After reading from Jeremiah 18, she gave us each a small piece of clay, to shape into a vessel that represents how God is shaping us.

Being a sculptor and potter, I began to think about the process of making a pot on a pottery wheel, specifically the first steps. To begin, the potter has to center the clay on the wheel. This is perhaps the most difficult step for beginners. As the clay spins, the potter places their hands on the top and the side, and applies pressure to smooth it and create a perfectly round cylinder of clay, exactly in the center of the wheel. Inexperienced potters find it very hard to tell the difference between perfectly centered and slightly off, and even more difficult to get rid of the last little wobbles. This leads to many either thinking it’s centered when it’s not, or getting frustrated and continuing with un-centered clay on purpose, which causes problems later on.

But once the clay is perfectly centered, the potter can begin to open the pot by pressing on finger down in the exact center, and gently pulling towards themselves. Sometimes during this step the pot will be thrown off center again by an air bubble or other flaw in the clay that hasn’t be found yet, and the potter must pause and fix it. If it’s off even a little bit, the final pot will be lopsided. At this stage in the process the pot doesn’t look like much, basically just a very thick, low bowl, but from here the potter can create anything. And without the work that has gone into it up to this point, there is no pot.

As I considered this process, I thought about where I was. At first I thought I might still be in the first step, still a little wobbly, resisting letting myself be perfectly centered on God. But then I realized what this year, and the previous two years of seminary, have been: the opening. My seminary experience (which I consider my YAV year to be an extension of) has been about opening me up, in preparation to be shaped into the vessel best suited to fulfill my call. There have been times when I’ve been knocked off center, but God keeps patiently smoothing me out, and continuing on.

I also realized that this step isn’t over yet. Thankfully I have another year of seminary as God lays the foundations for whatever it is I will become. Looking at the tiny version of a partially completed pot that I had created from green modeling clay, I thought, I sure don’t look like much. Just as to the untrained eye it appears that the potter has done barely anything at this stage, to someone who doesn’t know me it appears I am too young, inexperienced, and naïve to do the work God has called me to do. But I know the work that God has done and is doing in my life. I trust that God is preparing me, as only God can do. Because without these first steps, the clay will never be a masterpiece.